


stories in his hands, memories in my grasp

by phoenix_elite



Category: Original Work
Genre: Art, Artists, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Own Characters - Freeform, Trust, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-10 03:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix_elite/pseuds/phoenix_elite
Summary: A story about the power of friendship and trust.The rest of is for you to find out.





	1. Author's Note

This piece was inspired by my grandparents.

  
After my grandfather’s death in 2017, I spent a long time being bombarded with memories of not just him, but my fraternal grandparents too as well as my maternal all of whom passed away in the past few years.

  
I have a grandmother left who I now appreciate so much, having realised that I wasn’t going to waste time and, in front of me, I had a woman who just wanted people to talk to, a woman who loved her family and had lost so much.

  
I love talking to her, learning stories, sharing laughs and I always get really chuffed when I make her laugh or smile.

  
She means a lot to me. Her teachings and sacrifices are now things that I can understand and appreciate.  
All of my grandparents mean a lot to me and the memory of them helps me to move forward.

 

This is ‘stories in his hands, memories in my grasp’.


	2. Present

I once knew a man.

A man who could create the sky in a brushstroke and the ocean in a teardrop.

A man who sang the praises of God and His angels through acrylics and watercolours; a man who would paint the creation of the Creator through smooth, perfect strokes and hard, imperfect lines.

A man who was deemed incomprehensible, ineffable, hands having always been familiar with a brush and a canvas.

 

This was a man who lived behind these words everyone knew, even me. These are the words that I was taught, that I was told; they tell the truth for I’ve seen the work being created right in front of me, but they never helped me to understand the bigger picture; who was this man?

So I decided to find out myself.  
He was the man with paint in his veins and I was the curious novice determined to figure him out. It was a challenging road but, in the end, right before the path veered off, I did.

I uncovered the man who was hidden behind a canvas.

 

I learnt his story.


	3. Past

It was never quiet in the studio nor could it ever be quiet, not with the sounds of brushstrokes on a canvas, the sound of water dripping from a dancing paintbrush or the sound of a novice in the corner with a sketchpad of their own.  

I sat there in silence as he worked; I wouldn’t dare to disrupt him during his hours at the studio, it was what I agreed to when he took me on all those years ago. Even as the years passed I still looked at him with awe for he created not a piece of mere art but an accurate imitation of what he could see or of what he imagined; a picture not a painting. 

Everything in his studio had order even though it essentially looked like chaos; colour palettes in disarray and some coated in crusted acrylics, stacks of paintbrushes all over the place, one behind his ear which would coat his white hair in bright colour with some tied to his belt and rows of them near specific artworks.There were canvases strewn over the place, carefully of course, some were finished and framed, some packaged and ready to be sent to galleries while the rest were left in the open to finish. To anyone who asked, I described it like a forest which was full of developing stories or as stories still in motion; as you walked down this path of his studio, there were little windows, or holes in trees, into different lands, showcasing scenes frozen in time, motion and acrylic. 

At the beginning, we weren’t ‘at ease’ to put it in one way I assume. We were too different, our age differences making it difficult to bridge the gap, the only thing we had in common was our passion for art and beauty. So we made do and every evening, before I left for the day, we sat next to the fireplace with cups of peppermint tea and a selection of biscuits, talking about books we’ve read or artists we liked. 

Time passed quite fast for the years that I followed him and shadowed him each moment, while all equally the same, they would constantly change; whether it would be peppermint tea or chamomile for our meetings in the drawing room, the visits to galleries or libraries, using watercolour or charcoal. 

Of course, as time went on, so did life. He was faced with illness after illness, and after a while, after arguments and forced bed rest, after a heart attack, he knew it was his time to finally stop. 

Again, as an old man, he was stubborn, and he argued and argued until we relented, just so he could finish off his remaining paintings. Slowly, we let him do as he wished only if he ate what we gave him, took his medicine and he lasted longer than expected. 

Many months passed, and just as I mentioned, as time went on, he was pulled back. 

And when the final storm was painted, and the last roses had bloomed, when his hands became too frail and his eyes too weak, I sat beside him as he lay next to his own little garden of Eden, a wrinkled hand resting in mine. 

It was the first time I’ve ever asked “Why?” Why did he choose me? Why did he keep me alongside him all these years? Why didn’t he push me away?

For the first and final time, I received an answer. His eyes were soft, and his hold was tight as he confessed as a dying man. 

“In all my years of living and painting, all I’d ever wanted was a friend. While I’ve never expressed such gratitude towards you, you never left me, a grumpy old and withering man who had no one but the comfort of a mere stranger”. He squeezed my hand and smiled at me, one that I returned. “I have everything that anyone would wish to have, a large house with acres of land, wealth and a seemingly peaceful life. But even the greediest or the bravest of men wouldn’t wish to live such a life of loneliness.” He cut himself off with a bone rattling cough and I rushed to give him some water. His hands trembled and his blue eyes slightly watered as he sipped on the water in between coughs. 

I rubbed his back and through his tunic I could feel his slightly warmed skin and the knobs of his spine against my fingers. Once he had calmed down and was rested against his cushions, he reached for a full bloomed dahlia from right next to him and enclosed it in my hand. He tapped my hand once and then twice more before resting his hand on top of mine. 

“Let me tell you something child.” He chuckled as I sighed from his still consistent use of referring to me as a child, even though I was now nearing my late thirties. “Shh now and listen.”

“I was brought up to become a bitter child in a horrid orphanage, with no caring guardians and my only escape being through education, which is the reason as to how I managed to get into a position like this.

We weren’t ever fed properly neither were we looked after with any care; it became a place of survival and all the children, especially the elders, considered each other enemies. It was a constant fight for an extra slice of bread or a chance to have another thin and worn blanket in the winter. And with the fight for survival came suffering, illness and death. Those who couldn’t fend for themselves, nameless and young, oh so young, were the ones who suffered the most. No-one knew who they were; Tom or Harry? Mary or Anne? All I remember is that they were stripped bare then wrapped in a simple white sheet and buried at the back of the garden, a small wooden cross their only identity while their clothes and belongings became another’s.

I was one of the lucky few, having fended for myself and then leaving at 18 as an apprentice at an antiques store in town which specialised in the arts and sold many forged or genuine pieces of artwork; from clay masterpieces to acrylic landscapes. From then on, I enhanced my fascination and taught myself they ways of an artist and each paycheque used to buy more and more art supplies. Eventually as the years passed, I became envious of others; I desired more and more success and recognition. I guess after nearly 15 years of being ignored growing up made me want to be known.

I worked hard, no time for relationships and families, and after a while I began to leap up each pedestal while everyone else I knew settled with playing ‘happy families’. I looked at them with scorn and my nose up in the air; did they not know any better? 

So that was how I would spend my days. Working, painting, eating, sleeping with limited contact with anyone else; a cold, cold life. 

Then one day, that all changed after a conversation with associates who pushed me to accept an apprentice. You came along and challenged everything that I was used to in my old age; a fresh pair of eyes with a contrasting outlook to mine which taught me new things and viewed the world in a different perspective”, he paused as his eyes began to water, “You helped me to realise that I was more than just a mere, unpleasant painter, I was a human capable of not living a life of scornful solitude and because of your friendship, I was more than just and old man withering away”.

Neither of had dry eyes as I tightened my grip on the weathered hands in my grasp.

He let out a wet chuckle and said, “I think it’s time for a final ‘thank you’ my dearest friend, so thank you.”

 

 

The sun on the horizon had just begun to set as he said his last words and let out his last breath, a smile frozen in place. His eyes drooped, and he sagged back into his pillows with hands, now lax, held in my grasp.

I laid him down properly, a pillow supporting his head and a blanket covering him laying his clasped hands folded over his chest. 

 

I left him there with a single white rose in his unresponsive hold and an unspoken promise for his tale to be told, and for it to live on.

 

 

 

 


	4. Present; The End

 

And I wanted to fulfil that promise that I made to the best of my ability.

So I told eager ears, reporters, up and coming artists. I told my children and my children’s children, who told their children and their friends and families and eventually, with the money he left for me, we built an orphanage in his name, so need not another child be raised alone, neglected or in bitterness.

I had fulfilled my promise; I told them and taught them of the man with the paint in his veins, who was a true, hidden wonder.

 

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
